Page 8 of Mate of a Monster

Legend

Storm clouds roll in over the valleys in a wave of darkness. Images flick over my head of them drowning out Rathe in its entirety, just to make it all…stop.

Hands land on my stomach, and I look down to see the white-tipped fingernails of Arabella.

“Everything okay?” I ask without turning, keeping my focus pinned ahead.

“You’ve been standing at this window for an hour,” she says softly, kissing my back. “Come to bed.”

I wait for it. The spark, the want, the fucking need to drown myself in her. The over-powering obsession of ripping layers of her away, if only to make it easier for me to climb inside.

I feel nothing.

My reflection stares back at me through the window. Sometime between now and whenever the fuck that night was, my shoulders become wider. All I do is eat and bench. There’s no other way to release the kind of rage I feel lying dormant like a snake in hibernation. Even the lines on my face have evaporated. No movement. No nothing.

“Legend.” Arabella’s hands slide higher, pressing flat against my chest. “You need rest. Your power has been unstable since…”

She doesn’t finish. She never finishes, as if the thought of it pains her. I mean, shit, it probably does.

Since I discarded my fake mate in a room full of people who wanted her dead.

My grip on the glass tightens before I throw back the Fae juice, hissing at the burn as it settles in my gut. Now I feel something. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not.” Her footsteps are light against the stone floor as she rounds to the front of me. Arabella is beautiful in the way things that don’t have anything else to offer are. There’s no depth to her beauty, no trickery. It’s flat and boring.

What the fuck? Why did I just think that?

My knuckles skim her cheek. “Relax, let the bond settle. You know it’s fresh and new right now; you’re just hyperaware of every little thing. I promise you, I’m fine.”

I fucking ain’t. The fact that she doesn’t know that isn’t alarming, though, since I don’t even really know it. Except for when I do, like right now.

Everything is so…quiet. But quiet is good. Quiet is clearly what I needed to balance me out. The Gods don’t get this shit wrong. Witches do.

She winces. Fucking winces. My dick is gonna kill her. Then remake her.

“Okay.” Her lips turn up a little at the corner, but it’s hardly a smile. “Maybe it’s just that your Ethos needs to settle from whatever that witch did. Our bond will take over whatever she did to you soon, and he’ll rise.”

I don’t want to talk about it anymore, so I wrap my arm around her waist and force her lips to mine.

My cock stirs. Finally. Something.

Arabella moans into my mouth as my hands slide down, gripping the curve of her ass through the thin silk of her nightgown. The fabric bunches under my fingers, pulling her hips flush against mine. She scrambles for the band of my sweats, desperation in every flick of her tongue.

Her hunger only starves out mine.

I deepen the kiss, teeth scraping her bottom lip, tongue stroking against hers. I know this song and dance, performed it often—and well. Never had any complaints, truly, and always enjoyed it. I still remember when Khad, a pixie fairy, danced her shit all over my lap. Fuck, I never thought I’d want anything as much as I wanted to fuck her, and I did. More than once. Her little—

Arabella drops to her knees. I wrap her blond hair around my fist. Once. Twice. The silk of her hair glows against the moonlight.

Gripping the base of my cock, I guide it to her waiting mouth.

Her lips part, warmth swallowing me whole. She groans, sending vibrations down my shaft. I concentrate on her, on what she’s doing as her head bobs up and down. She looks up at me from below, making all the right sounds and doing all the right things.

My grip tightens, and I try to focus. Her mouth, soft and wet. The room blurs at the edges and the blond strands of her hair start to slowly turn dark.

I don’t stop, my hips meeting her at every thrust. That sickly sweet perfume she wears disappears behind smoke, leather, and spice—Yes. So fucking mine.

Arabella’s eyes peer up at me again—only they’re not Arabella’s. They’re the familiar deep green, living emeralds of Haide’s eyes. Rage tears through the building pleasure, but it doesn’t replace it. It fucking fuels it.